Lies of Reality
by Nixas
Summary: The team gets a bizarre case characterized by potentially satanic ritualistic killings that leaves them scratching their heads. Luckily they have Dr. Reid - except that he appears to have gone missing. Will the BAU solve the mystery without the doctor? Is it true that Reid is connected to the killer? Will they find him before time is up? (Vampires Included)
1. Prologue

Prologue

Watching her rise beneath him is the greatest pleasure. She twists and claws at him, guttural animalistic noises cracking through the silence. He stares, a mesmerized smile parted in wonder. The reddening of her face gives her the appearance of an angry doll. Grabbing her wrists, he flips her now dead weight over, stroking her neck. Her pulse flutters frantically beneath his gloved fingertips. Truly a pity that she was of no use dead – or at least no use to his superiors. He could think of more than a few things he'd like to do with her limp, compliant body.

The blade glints in the soft glow of candlelight as he strokes her back; steel tracing patterns of crimson. He admires the way the blood wells, beads, runs down her skin like tears.

Truly a pity.

* * *

Spencer dressed as per his usual routine, mismatched socks and all. Contrary to what his team may think, he had long since learned the multifaceted nature of silences. Today, the silence that pressed around him was stark and severe, carrying the punishing nature of implicit disapproval. He slipped the knot of his tie into place, gazing dispassionately at himself in the mirror. Expression blank, eyes frosty, he set about preparing breakfast in the kitchen. His movements were monotonous, long pale fingers grabbing this and that with little attention. Others might call him lazy, yet there lacked even that vestige of personality in his movements. He was as stiff and bland as a textbook, a brown haired automaton in a sweater-vest.

The breakfast table shivered with the vibrations of his phone.

A. Hotchner: Come in ASAP. Case.

Spencer's hand froze mid bite, spoon half-way to his lips. Slowly he rested his forearm on the table and reached for the phone with his free hand. Staring at the screen no recognition passed over his face, his eyes distant. He set the phone down. His hand once again raised the spoon to his lips. A slight trickle of crimson liquid leaked down his chin.

* * *

As the title suggests this is just the prologue. I intend for the first official chapter to go up either later tonight or sometime tomorrow afternoon. Hope you enjoyed this short introduction.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

His brows becoming increasingly furrowed, Hotch watched the bull-pen for any sign of the team's youngest, but often most crucial member. The rest were already waiting to be briefed, no doubt growing antsy to begin. It was odd of Reid to ignore a text, or for that matter, the short voicemail the BAU chief had left him. Checking the time, he decided to join them and begin without Reid.

Heads turned as he entered the room, taking his place near the front of the conference table.

"Have any of you heard from Reid?" he asked, his expression all business.

A set of exchanged glances and slight frowns told him the answer before anyone spoke.

"Not a peep. Did you give him a call?" Garcia answered.

"Yes, and left a voicemail, but he hasn't returned either that or my texts. We will start the briefing, but I'd like you all to try to contact him."

Agreeable nods acknowledged his request. Hotch turned his gaze to Garcia. Taking that for the cue that it was, she began.

"Thirty-eight year old Samantha Collins was found two weeks ago in Ohio with what appears to be ancient runes carved into her back. COD was an overdose of hemlock. There were unusual ligature marks on her wrists and neck, I say unusual because they leave a very distinctive pattern not typically caused by rope or wire. "

A brown-haired Samantha Collins went from smiling at the agents to naked and bloodied at the click of a button. She lay face-down on a concrete floor, dried blood running from six characters sliced into the deathly pallor of her back.

"She lived alone and was found in the basement of her home after she missed two days at the Westerville Gas Company when a concerned co-worker dropped by. The next victim is Victoria Whithers, a seventeen year old soon to be college student. She was top of her class at Westerville North High School and graduated a year early. Her body was discovered wrapped neatly by a dumpster behind one of the local shops. The same kinds of runes were carved into her back and the COD was the same."

"That's quite an age difference for this unsub, dontcha think?" Rossi addressed the group.

JJ murmured in agreement, adding, "They differ in appearance though. A blond and a brunette of considerably different heights. It doesn't look like he's too picky there."

"But neither of them are from high-risk groups. An intelligent and beautiful young woman who, as far as we know, didn't indulge in substance abuse. And then there's Samantha, a middle-class office worker," Morgan added.

"But being single could also provide the unsub with an opportunity to get close to her," JJ countered.

"Well sure, if the unsub is a man and the victims are heterosexual, but the poisoning and cleanliness of the dump-sites and bodies suggest that it might be a woman we are dealing with," Callahan pointed out exactly what Hotch was thinking.

"While we can't rule out that the unsub is male, it seems likely that they are female, which would account for both Samantha and Victoria's ease. Samantha was likely attacked in her own home and the report doesn't mention any signs of forced entry. We can continue to discuss this on the jet. Wheels up in twenty."

At Hotch's words the team stood collectively and began to file out of the conference room. Hotch glanced at his phone. There were no missed calls or messages.

* * *

Spencer stares at the passing cars through the window. Interesting how all the people rush about hither and thither, never thinking about the sound of their own heartbeat, the rasp of each breath. Humans are noisy creatures who know nothing about silence except how to break it. Noisy, smelly, clumsy humans, he was surrounded by them.

So why save them?

That was a question he had been asking himself for ages. He may never completely understand them, but he got closer and closer to it everyday. Though humans were weak, humanity was a strong force that he dedicated himself to protecting at all costs. It was something that funnily enough not all humans possessed. After all, the BAU knows all about monsters in human skin. And if it stood to reason that some humans lacked humanity, then surely, _surely_ it could be true that monsters could possess humanity. Right?

Spencer closes his eyes, hands squeezing into tight fists.

Deep down he knows that no, monsters are just monsters and that no amount of studying and socializing could ever bestow him with what he was not born. Opening his eyes, he casts an appraising glance at the other passengers, observing the phenomena that is public transportation. He can smell them all. The woman three seats back with the hipster hat, the little boy in the baby carrier next to her, the balding middle aged man in his dress-shirt and tie across the aisle, and all the others. Each odor clamors for his attention, the miasma that he strives to ignore daily is a familiar battle.

He let his thoughts wander to the team, the make-shift family that would no doubt be arriving any time now. He was sure that his phone would be 'blowing up' with messages on his kitchen table. He wonders what they would think, but he doesn't wonder too hard because it no longer matters. In time he would fade from their memories, his absence replaced with an experienced agent from some other branch. What does it matter to him what these humans, whose days were numbered, thought of him?

Besides, he has work to do.

* * *

This one was different and he wonders if it will be a problem. He stares at the body smiling at the boy's nearly cherubic face. He runs a gloved finger down the length of the boy's nose, traces the cupid's bow of his lips. This one died earlier than was preferable, but he hoped it would do. He certainly didn't mind getting to feast his eyes on that gangly body. He remembered when he was fourteen and he didn't have _nearly_ as pleasing a body. But then, he was biased.

He had never seen himself dead before.

He could feel that the rituals were working. If you asked him how he knew, he wouldn't be able to tell you. He just... _knew._ The presence of It was drawing closer and until he found It...well, he'd be staring at several more cadavers before It arrived.

He didn't mind in the least.

* * *

Thanks again for reading I'm really feeling this story, so I think that another update will happen within the next few days.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Spencer watches Hotch and Rossi mill about Victoria's dump-site. Snow falls thickly, patiently dusting the agents' coats and hair, not to mention the details of the site. Of course, it was neat, so there isn't much to discover. He wonders if they know that they are wasting their time. Probably.

Spencer himself is but the shadow of a chimney as the gloomy daylight begins to fade. He wishes they would just leave already; there are things the snow can never hide, not from the likes of him. He watches snowflakes dance away from the great puff of air Rossi releases in irritation. Spencer can't stifle the amused grin that tugs his lips slightly upward. Rossi exchanges a few words with the local officers tasked with guarding the scene, but Spencer's attention has already shifted to Hotch, who is glaring anxiously down at his mobile. He guesses that Hotch will soon be sending police to his apartment, no doubt worried by his absence. Spencer allows himself a soft chuckle at the irony. Only a few moments longer and the agents leave with the police to reconvene with the rest of the team.

Spencer cocks an ear, hearing the soft pit pat psh of falling snow, but listening for any signs of approaching footfalls. Encouraged by that particular silence, he steps off the roof of Tom's pizza, landing with no more than a whisper of leather on the dumpster below. He inhales the sting of winter, the musk of Rossi's cologne, the sour coffee lingering on Hotch's breath, the faint scent of arousal from the police officers whom Rossi had charmed. Beneath all that there is something else...something sinisterly familiar. The iron tang of blood tickles his tongue accompanied by the bitter-sweet perfume of fear: the cocktail of death.

Stooping low to the ground, it is a laughably easy matter for him to find where she had lain. Here her arms had hung limply to the side, and there her legs had been gently folded beneath her. Acerbic hemlock marked where her head had been, lips likely parted in a last gasp. Checking again to be sure that he will not be seen, Spencer brushes away the quickly accumulating snow, scouring the ground for the symbols that he suspects will be there. Stirred up from the mix of loose asphalt and gravel, the scent of lemon wafts into his nostrils.

Ah.

Bending his head even lower, Spencer inhales deeply, using his fingers to trace where the juice had been carefully brushed. How very clever. The symbols, invisible, and unnoticed by most are there, painted in lemon juice. It's like reading braille with his nose.

Rising quickly to his feet, he slips out of the alley, following the lemon juice map.

* * *

At the police station, which was naught but a block away from Victoria's dump-site, Hotch knew something was wrong before Callahan opened her mouth.

"There's another body," she said as way of greeting.

Hotch pressed his lips into a thin line, "Where?"

"Three blocks over, fourteen year old Trevor Seward has just been found by his parents in his bed. There are no ligature marks, but the symbols are there," she replied.

"In his bed?" Faint surprise was audible in Rossi's voice.

A grim nod was his response before Callahan turned on her heel, leading the way to the rest of the team. The details were scrawled hastily on a whiteboard around which a handful of officers had gathered. JJ crossed the room to meet them.

"Morgan already left with the sheriff to examine the crime scene and question the family," she said.

Hotch nodded, equal parts perplexed and alarmed that the unsub seemed to be devolving so quickly.

"This isn't your typical devolution. Yes, the time between kills is getting smaller, but subduing and mutilating the victim in his own bed is just audacious," Rossi ruminated.

"Samantha and Victoria's reports both conclude that the cutting occurred ante-mortem, so the unsub spent a considerable amount of time with the victim before leaving the home," JJ reported.

"Assuming that he left the home at all," Hotch reminded the room that the unsub was undoubtedly close.

Sounds of grieving reached Morgan's ears as he examined the crime scene. Pushing aside the faint pangs of guilt he felt for leaving the sheriff with the family members, he focused on the bloodstained sheets. There was a surprisingly small amount of blood for the depth of the cuts. He had to steel himself to face the body, ignoring that mere hours ago this was a living teenage boy. The victim lay face-down in a puddle of frothy drool. The lacerations were just as neat as those found on the other victims. Again the runes were present, though only two of them were familiar. The other four seemed to be from the same alphabet but were not found on either Victoria or Samantha.

Morgan wondered if the team had discovered the significance of the markings yet. Reid would have translated them from the crime photos before they had even boarded the jet if he had been there. The niggling worry he had felt when they had left without the young genius had blossomed into borderline fear, inching Morgan closer and closer to panic with each text and phone-call that went unanswered.

Closing his eyes and exhaling deeply, he forced himself to _focus._

Already a marked stiffness could be seen in the body, which suggested that the body was older than the police had been told. Morgan frowned. He checked the latch on the window. It was locked. Re-tracing his steps back to the hallway, he checked each of the second floor windows, and just like in the bedroom they were all locked. The sound of footsteps on the stairs caused Morgan to turn toward JJ as she ascended.

"All of the windows on this floor are locked, so the unsub must have either already been in the house or entered from downstairs," he explained the situation.

"You think it's likely that one of the parents is responsible?"

"I think it's possible. The body seems to already be in the stages of advanced rigor mortise, which could suggest that one or both of them is lying about the age of the body. It would account for the time needed for removal of evidence if they are guilty."

"But if that was their goal, wouldn't they have staged an obvious point of entry, such as an unlocked window," JJ queried.

Before Morgan could respond his phone tweeted, announcing a text message. Immediately reaching for the phone with the hopes that Reid had finally returned his texts, he couldn't cover the disappointment at reading Baby Girl. He remembered that he had asked Garcia for the symptoms of hemlock poisoning.

"Garcia says that severe muscle tension and paralysis are signs of hemlock poisoning, which could explain the advanced stiffening," Morgan reported to JJ.

At an unspoken signal the two descended, encountering Hotch at the foot of the stairs. Morgan relayed his theory to Hotch in hushed tones. Hotch frowned.

"The distress at losing their son seems genuine, I doubt that they're responsible," a beat passed before Hotch followed up with an inquiry about Reid.

Both JJ and Morgan shook their heads.

"I've been trying to get a hold of him but he's just not answering. Hotch, I think something serious may have happened," Morgan didn't like the slight beseeching tone in his voice.

Hotch was vaguely aware that Morgan wanted him to allay the unspoken fear that the whole team shared, and he was sorry to be the one to eliminate the spark of hope that Morgan carried in his body language.

"I just sent someone over to his apartment before talking to the Sewards. Hopefully, they will have good news for us soon."

* * *

It has arrived. Excitement thrums beneath his skin, knowing that perhaps only blocks away, perhaps only feet away, what he so desperately sought was close. He knows that It will find him regardless of where he is, but he couldn't just sit here and do nothing! He shrugs on his jacket, flexing his fingers in his gloves. What he needs to do is celebrate, celebrate this most significant achievement! His superiors will be pleased, but even more importantly he was about to get that which he craved more than anything.

Death.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Spencer watches the man enter his basement apartment. Quietly he slips in behind him, eyeing the man as he approaches a liqueur cabinet. Spencer invites himself onto the couch, eyes wandering over the threadbare furniture, the dusty surfaces, taking in the stale scent of aged bachelorhood. His eyes stop on the south wall, where ripped out pages of ogham runes and arcane texts ripple in the passing breeze stirred by the man. A heart diagram shivers as if shuddering out its last beats. The inviting scent of warm blood yanks his attention away from the wall. The man holds out a crystal tumbler to Spencer.

The man is smiling, obviously wanting Spencer to take the proffered drink, his other hand wrapped around a tumbler filled with brandy. Knowing it was unwise, Spencer accepts the glass, taking a small sip. Almost immediately he regrets it. He can feel his eyes dilate, his mouth filling with anticipatory saliva, and his hand simultaneously tightens on the glass. There really is nothing quite like the taste of human blood. Forcibly restraining himself from gulping the rest down, he eases back into the musty cushions.

"I've been waiting for you. I was planning on it taking longer, but here you are," the man beams at him, punctuating his sentence with a large swig of brandy.

Spencer says nothing. There is nothing to say. The man has murdered innocent people in order to lure him here. The look on the man's face makes it clear that Spencer is supposed to feel honored. He takes another delicious, hateful sip. _Ye gads_ but it's good. Channeling his self-disgust, Spencer knocks the brandy out of the man's hand, grabbing his wrist and yanking him forward. Stumbling into Spencer's lap, the two are suddenly eye level. He notices with revulsion that the man's heart-rate is rising, his pupils blown wide with exhilarated anticipation.

"Will you do it? Will you make me like you? A god of death," the man's desperate desire makes Spencer sick with hate. A god of death? Is that what he thinks Spencer is?

"Is that why you murdered them? Victoria, Samantha, and Trevor, to become a monster?" he asks.

"Murder?! Why, I never murdered anyone! I sacrificed them. They are gifts for you! You aren't displeased with them are you?" The man worries at his lip, anxious to have displeased this beautiful god.

"Gifts?!" Spencer laughs bitterly, his expression twisting into something furious and horrible.

Growing increasingly uneasy, the man thinks to placate his guest.

"That's what they told me to do; they said you would come if only I performed the rituals."

"They? Who's they?" The urgency in Spencer's voice strangles the words into a guttural growl.

"I-I'm not-not entirely sure!" The man's voice rises into a squeal as Spencer shoves him against the back of the couch, his nose spurting blood from where it collided with the wall. His guest's icy breath raises hair as it passes mere millimeters from the nape of his neck.

"Tell. Me. Who. They. Are," Spencer hisses into the expectant silence.

"I don't know who they are! I only know that they knew I wanted to be like you! They came to m-me one night after work. They knew all about me and what I – what I liked," the man blubbers, blood mixing with spittle.

"Oh? And what is it, exactly, that you _like?"_

"Well, you know, the corpses, how p-pretty they look. I want to be like them, b-but I don't want to be dead dead, just sorta...dead," the man is peculiarly shy considering that he has recently killed three people.

Meanwhile, Spencer can't help but notice how...enticing the blood spatters are. As the man talks, he finds himself focusing not on his words, but on the trickle of crimson down his face.

He could lick it.

 _No!_ No, he won't. It is bad enough that he drank from the tumbler, bad enough that he already intends to take the glass with him. He tells himself it's a forensic countermeasure, but the half-full glass will likely be empty before he even leaves the man's living room.

 _Crack._

Spencer abandons the body on the couch and drains the glass in one gulp.

* * *

At the police station Hotch pulled his team away from the main police force, gesturing for them to file into a cramped conference room which had little in common with the conference room at Quantico. Expectant faces stared back at him.

"The officers that were dispatched to Reid's just reported back to me. He's not there. His wallet was left in the kitchen along with his badge and phone."

"Was there any sign of a struggle?" Morgan asked.

"None, everything was very neat, no dirty dishes or laundry. The front door and all the windows were locked."

"So what? You think he just up and walked out on us?" Morgan's voice was defiant.

"I didn't say that," Hotch's tone held a hint of reproach. JJ reached out, placing her hand on Morgan's shoulder.

"I've already asked Garcia to do what she can to find Reid, but right now he's not the official case,"" Hotch continued.

"So we're just going to give whoever took Reid more time to fulfill their sick fantasies?" Morgan's raised his voice in disbelief.

"We don't know that Reid was taken by anyone. Hotch is right, we need to focus on catching the unsub who we know killed three people in the past three weeks," JJ attempted to focus and calm her co-worker.

With an irate sigh, Morgan pulled away from her touch and stormed out of the room. The rest of the team exchanged worried looks.

* * *

Spencer is furious.

He should have known that there were darker things afoot than a single sycophantic serial killer. Thinking back to the papers on the wall, he recognizes most of them to be no more than fraudulent pieces of stained paper, their contents little more than nonsense. Any person with the most basic of computer skills could have printed those off, and the runes are just as accessible.

But unlike that other quack trash, the runes have real power.

He had felt their power all the way in his apartment in Virginia. He vividly remembers the feel of the call, like spiders slipping under his skin, burrowing into his veins. At first he had tried to ignore it, but it wore him down, draining his energy and making him snappish at work. Then Victoria had died to fuel the runes carved into her back, doubling the effect of the call. He had wanted to rip off his flesh it stung so badly. Reasoning with himself that it was not for himself, but for the two girls who had died for his attention, he had made the decision to leave, to find the butchering son-of-a-bitch. Even before Hotch's text, Spencer knew that it was likely the BAU would be involved. It would have been a simple thing to go with them and hunt the killer as an FBI agent.

But how would he have resisted scratching off his own skin? The call intensifies all his senses, makes his hunger a visceral thing, makes him a killer. How could he have hid that from a team of profilers?

So yes, the runes have real power, but the man who carved them was just following directions. The real question is, who taught him how to use them?


	5. Chapter 4

I hope it doesn't bother y'all much that I switch tenses for Reid. He's supposed to be in the present moment rather than third omniscient. I'm still on the fence about it to be honest. I think it works well for the unsub, but not yet sure about Reid.

Anyway, thanks for faves and follows! I really appreciate it. It is really annoying me though that even though I've updated multiple times, it doesn't move the story up on the fanfiction page and says that the only time I updated it was the day it was published which is not true...

* * *

Chapter Four

"Baby Girl tell me you've found something," Garcia didn't even have to ask, she knew that Morgan was talking about Reid.

"Chocolate Thunder, you know I wish I could, but he's not carrying or using any plastic, and he doesn't have his cell phone on him so I can't track him by GPS. We're going to have to get creative if we're going to find Boy Wonder," Garcia's words dripped regret and worry.

A frustrated huff came from the other end of the line and Garcia winced, intuiting how hard Reid's disappearance was on Morgan. She wasn't exactly handling things well either. It took a a mighty effort of restraint to not prioritize their teammate, something that she felt guilty about. After all, who was she to place a value on a human life? She _knew_ that the likelihood of another body showing up was higher than Reid being kidnapped. But then again...it was _Reid,_ who unwittingly defied the same statistics he spouted.

"Thanks Garcia. Any other news?"

"Weeeell, there was in fact surveillance footage of our unsub dragging Victoria's body to the dump-site. I'm sending it to the team … now. I'm running the visual through facial recognition software, but that could take some time."

"You're amazing," he replied.

"You know it."

Garcia ended the call. The enhanced recording of the unsub looped silently off to the side as she furiously typed, digging through the mass of information that was the internet. Of course, having watched the video, she had seen the unsub, a man of average height and build, as he knelt on the ground. He had taken a small unlabeled jar of something and a paintbrush from his jacket before using both to paint _something_ on the ground. She was sure that whatever he had been painting would have at least darkened the pavement, but she couldn't decipher anything from the grainy images. She was sure that the rest of the team would go back to see if they could find any trace of what had been painted.

Glancing casually to the side to check the progress of other programs, the video once again drew her attention.

* * *

"His name is Karl McIntyre. He lives at 413 East Oak street," JJ tossed this at Hotch as he strode into the department.

She was already equipped with a Kevlar vest, a fierce look on her face.

"Does the rest of the team know?"

She nodded, "They're preparing to leave as well. One of the officers recognized him from the footage Garcia sent."

Hotch couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of relief knowing that the end of the case was in sight. He hoped there wouldn't be any complications, that the unsub would come easily. And yet a larger part of him mulled over _why_ the unsub would do this. It had seemed ritualistic, yet what caused this unsub's unusual behavior? Most religion motivated male unsubs used a more violent form of 'sacrifice'.

He didn't like not knowing all the facts. Even the smallest detail could prove crucial in determining the extent of the threat they faced by taking down an unsub in his own home.

"JJ!" Hotch barked to the agent's retreating form. She paused, pivoting to meet his gaze, her own eyes slightly quizzical.

"Yes?"

He hesitated; a shrill ring-tone silenced his warnings before they could leave his tongue.

"Garcia?"

"Sir! I - I think I found Reid -"

"I thought I said not to make him a priority right now," Hotch's voice had an irritated edge.

"But sir, that's the thing. I wasn't looking for him, not officially anyway, but I think – I think I saw him on more footage from that pizza place next to the alley,"

His response was immediate. A chill of concern raced up his spine.

"Send the footage right away...and thank you Garcia," he hung up before she could respond in kind.

"Where's the rest of the team?" he asked JJ.

"Some of them are probably already on their way to McIntyre's, why?"

"In that case, you and I need to stay here. Garcia found Reid."

* * *

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Karl was but a puppet to the real mastermind behind the killings. Obviously, someone wants him here and here he is, but why? Spencer sits casually on the roof of the building diagonal from Karl's apartment, waiting. Surely whoever is after him will show up eventually. Normally, Spencer would try to be a step ahead of the game, but he doesn't even know what game is being played here. He feels rather disconcertingly like a pawn placed to take the blow meant for a more valuable piece.

The wail of police sirens pierces the stillness of the night air. He scoffs at himself for the brief surprise he feels that the team has already discovered the unsub's identity without him. Westerville is small; it is not likely that a large force of officers would be arriving for any other crime. His grim suspicion of being set-up only strengthens as four police vehicles screech to a halt across the street. He recognizes Callahan, Morgan, and Rossi at this distance...but where are Hotch and JJ?

Spencer crouches low to the roof, not too concerned about being spotted on a cloudy night, but not willing to take too many chances. He watches as officers encircle the building.

"FBI open up!" Morgan's shout echoes in the crisp air, creating a crackling tension.

Spencer didn't so much as breathe during the ensuing expectant silence.

 _Kloomp! Bang!_

Morgan's gracious entrance leaves the basement door swinging; muffled shouts of 'clear' follow suit.

Knowing what they had found, Spencer creeps down the back of the roof, barely disturbing the snow as he descends. He has already decided that the next course of action involves breaking into police headquarters. Usually he is invited into such places, but in light of recent events...it would be rather suspicious to suddenly appear in the town of a case on which he hadn't even been briefed. Feeling like a fugitive, he takes a circuitous route to his destination, already scoping out points of entry.

It would be a lie to say that he isn't disconcerted by the flash of insight he experiences as he ducks and weaves through alleys and rooftops.

Soon, it would be him that the BAU hunts.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Morgan cursed loudly, eyes never leaving the corpse of Karl McIntyre. The body slumped across a lumpy couch like a deflated doll. His neck had been cleanly snapped.

"Morgan, check this out," Callahan stepped towards the far wall where papers whipped about, crackling and sighing in the wind that gusted through the open door. Morgan accompanied her, slowly taking in what appeared to be pages from some occult text. Twisted, ghoulish figures terrorized the majority of the pages, yet there were some that looked relatively bland. Their edges were crisp and clear, not faded with either real or illusory age. Regardless of apparent age, nearly every text had some spelling variation of 'vampire' on it.

"Vampires? What does this have to do with vampires?" his tone was blatantly incredulous.

"Not sure, but it could be a delusion he had, one strong enough to spark the killings," Callahan replied.

"But if he's the unsub, why is he dead?"

Callahan exchanged a look of dread, knowing as Morgan knew, what the implication of his words were.

* * *

Spencer shimmied the latch, gritting his teeth against the gusting wind threatening to pry is fingers off the windowsill. Three floors up he hung while breaking into the police department. Definitely not something to put on his resume.

A slight metal screech, and the window popped open easy as you please.

His relieved sigh puffed out into the frigid air. He hauled himself up and through the window, landing with much less grace than was usually associated with his kind. He was grateful that his blundering limbs still managed to assemble themselves quietly. Despite the darkness of the room, Spencer easily made his way over to the office door, checking to see if it was locked. It was, but he eased the back of a chair under the door knob anyway, effectively jamming the door should anyone attempt to enter before he found the information he sought. He hoped the chair would give him enough time to escape through the window without being spotted, but he was acutely aware of the many flaws in his plan.

Locking those worries in a trunk deep in his mind, Spencer proceeded to sit himself at what appeared to be a sergeant's desk. From the rough plan he had formed en route to the police department, he had guessed that this would be an office, but he had no way of knowing that he had landed a high ranking official's office rather than say, a workroom. Still, breaking in had been the easy part.

Opening the laptop sitting primly on the desk, he nearly laughed aloud at this sergeant's stupidity. A post-it note with a random string of numbers and letters was stuck lopsided beside the trackpad. Keying the characters in verbatim, Spencer logged-in as easily as if it were his very own laptop. Grinning, he sent a silent prayer thanking a god he didn't believe in for blessing the world with stupid people.

In the next forty-five minutes, he searched all the files and e-mail correspondence for even the slightest mention of vampires or 'the occult'. It seemed his luck had run out, and he became increasingly frustrated with each fruitless attempt. He had nearly decided to risk unfavorable odds breaking into a different room, when he heard voices in the hall. As the voices neared, Spencer realized that he recognized the deep timber tones of Hotch.

Alarm prickled his skin. Spencer could hear the soles of Hotch's boots rasping against carpet threads, the steady baseline of his heartbeat a metronome to his movements. He closed the laptop with a soft snick, rising nearly simultaneously from his seat, ready to bolt if the need arose.

"-at could he possibly be doing here?" Spencer startled as JJ's hushed voice seeped into the office.

"We can't be sure that he's related to the case, but it's likely," Hotch replied, his own voice soft and conspiratorial.

"He can't be involved with the murders. They started before we even knew about the case! He was with us when they happened!"

Spencer winced at the protective, trusting nature of her words, knowing that he was twice the monster JJ would never suspect him to be.

"Reid is a part of our team, a part of our family, and he would understand that his behavior is suspicious. If we can contact him, we should be able to sort everything out, but we need to know the truth," Hotch, as always, responded with cool reason to JJ's distress.

Spencer pondered that. What if he did contact his team? What if he asked them for help? He could tell them that a group of crazy people had targeted him, claiming he was a vampire, that he had panicked and run.

No. Though Morgan and JJ were emotional enough to ignore the glaring gaps in his lies, the rest of the team certainly wasn't. A sudden pang of loss twisted his stomach. He could never go back to them.

* * *

Hotch held JJ's gaze. She was obviously struggling with the possibility that Reid, a beloved member of their team, was involved in serial killings. Hotch didn't blame her, if he hadn't seen the video of the man approaching Victoria's dump-site mere minutes after he and Rossi had left, he wouldn't have believed it either. He still wouldn't have believed it, except that the man had stared directly at the camera, and he had undeniably been Reid.

Hotch didn't want to think about what Reid had been doing, though it was obvious that he had known exactly where the body had been. Of course, Reid was intelligent and it didn't take a genius to figure that out, but how had he known that the case was here, in Westerville, Ohio without being debriefed? Had he followed them? Or worse, had he already been here?

He ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the weariness etched into his skin. He didn't know what to make of the situation, and for a moment he desperately wished he didn't have to. JJ broke the silence.

"So what do we do?"

"We have to find Reid."

* * *

Sorry for the shortness of the chapter! Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon. Thanks for reading!


End file.
